Shot at Life
by autopilots
Summary: High-school AU, no supernatural elements. Mitchell has carefully constructed his life around the secret of his abusive father, but what will he do when it all starts crashing down around him? TW for domestic abuse, self-harm, and attempted suicide.
1. Chapter 1

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!" Mitchell muttered to himself, pulling up short just before he reached the curb outside his school. The bus had departed mere moments ago, and no matter how fast he had sprinted to catch up, it had resolutely ploughed on, turning onto the highway where he had no hope of getting on.

"Shit!" he yelled again, running his hands through his wild hair. He had to get on that goddamn bus; he couldn't afford to be late back home twice in one week. He glanced around the parking lot for George or Annie, hell, he would even take Nina at this point, but they were nowhere to be found. Hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulders, he pulled out his decrepit mobile and quickly walked back toward the school building.

 _where r u any chance i could get ride home_

He painstakingly typed out the text on the number pad of his phone (it was so old it didn't even have a keyboard, so he had to hit the numbers a thousand times just to get one letter) and then sent it to George. George was one of the majority of students who drove to and from school and was gracious enough, after about twenty minutes of complaining, to sometimes give Mitchell a ride home.

Mitchell jogged up the steps to the entrance of the school and flung open the door, glaring at a couple of giggling first years in the hallway. He immediately took off for the library, where George was most likely to be, either studying or working on some new project for the Debate Team, which Mitchell believed George spent an unhealthy amount of time worrying about.

He had nearly reached the library doors when his mobile buzzed in his hand.

 _Honestly, Mitchell, I have a Debate Team meeting in ten minutes! Can't you wait till it's over? Where's Annie?_

Mitchell groaned and set about typing out his response.

 _cant find her please ill make it up 2 u plus im only 5 mins away_

In all truth, Mitchell hadn't even tried to look for Annie. If he found her, he knew she would just jabber on forever and he would be even later than he already was. Plus, Annie was nosy. She may ask to come inside his house or (heaven forbid) to meet his father.

By this time, Mitchell had reached the library doors. He wrenched them open to find George rising from a table, looking severely pissed off as he packed up his things into his backpack and snatched his keys off the table.

"Let's go. And I swear to God, Mitchell, if you make me late for this meeting, I WILL kill you."

"No, you won't." Mitchell grinned, clapping George on the back. "Thanks, mate."

George just grumbled something about not being a taxi service and headed toward the parking lot, Mitchell hurrying along behind.

Ever since George had first met Mitchell, three years ago when he and his father had moved down from Dublin, he had only been to the Mitchell household a handful of times, not counting the occasions that he picked him up and dropped him off. George knew very little about Mitchell's home life; he didn't like to talk about it and preferred to hang out at George's or Annie's house rather than his own.

Nonetheless, he knew the route to the Mitchell abode like the back of his hand, and they made it in under five minutes, just as the clock on the dashboard hit 3:08. Mitchell, who had been on edge the entire car ride, leapt from the old Nissan a nanosecond after it had rolled to a stop.

"Thanks, George! Have fun at your meeting!" He called over his shoulder, already sprinting to the little ramshackle house, with its peeled siding and trash piled up on the front porch. George knew that Mitchell's mother had died six years ago when Mitchell had been eleven and that it was just him and his dad in the little house. Mr. David Mitchell, whom George had only met once, was someone whom his mother would have appropriately called a "bum."

George hesitated a moment, thinking back to Mitchell's behavior in the car. He had been noticeably agitated; he kept biting the nails on his gloveless fingers, and his eyes flicked to the clock every few seconds. What's more, he had barely said a word all journey, when normally he talked George's ear off just to annoy him.

George watched the door swing shut behind Mitchell and considered going after his friend just to make sure everything was okay, but then he dismissed the idea, knowing that Mitchell would just call him a worrywart and laugh. So, he shook his head, replaced thoughts of Mitchell with his plans for the Debate Team meeting, and headed back to school.

Mitchell hovered in the doorway of the tiny bungalow he shared with his father, heart pounding. The house was totally silent, and the stillness was unnerving. He quietly removed his shoes and set his bag down, then began looking for his father.

"Dad?" He checked living room first, and sure enough, his father was sprawled on the couch, fast asleep, with several empty beer bottles surrounding him. Mitchell tiptoed to the kitchen and was greeted with the sight of last night's washing up to do, which he had been too tired to finish the night before. He decided to leave his father be and began getting to work on cleaning the collection of dirt and grease off the towering pile of dirty dishes and glasses. He had made it through about half the stack when a gruff voice interrupted him.

"Finally decided to turn up, have you?"

Mitchell dropped the glass he was holding and flinched as it shattered on the floor. He spun around to find his father standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a murderous expression on his face. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and a few days' worth of stubble was growing on his face.

"I-I'm sorry. I missed the bus and had to have George drive me home, but I was only a few minutes late, I swear." The words spilled from his mouth in quick succession, trying to pacify his father before he got too angry.

"I tell you to be home at three every day, and you can't even bloody well get that right!" David yelled, spittle flying from his mouth as he approached Mitchell. "You're a fucking failure, you know that? How can I even call you my son?!"

Mitchell winced and began slowly backing away from his father and toward the door that led upstairs. If he could only get away...

"I-I'm sorry, it won't happen again, I swear." He stammered, the fear gripping his insides as his father drew closer.

"YOU'RE A LYING LITTLE SHIT! THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID THE LAST TIME!" David bellowed at his son. His fist came flying out of nowhere, catching Mitchell in the jaw and snapping his head to the side.

Mitchell brought his hands up to his face to try and deflect the following blows; he could already feel blood welling up in his mouth from where his teeth had sliced open the inside of his cheek.

"Stupid - fucking - bastard - idiot - can't - do - anything - right - " Each word was punctuated by a punch or kick to Mitchell, who had found himself on the floor after the first few blows. His arms did little to protect his head, as the blows kept raining down - on his stomach, his legs, his head - nothing was spared.

Mitchell didn't know how long the beating lasted, only aware that this was a particularly bad one. David usually had enough control over his mental faculties to try to stay away from Mitchell's face or any other visible areas, but today he seemed to have completely lost control.

Eventually, the beatings slowed to a stop and David turned away from Mitchell, digging a cigarette out of his pocket.

"Get your arse off the floor." he growled. "And clean this shit up." He kicked a piece of glass from the broken cup towards Mitchell, who was curled up on the floor, tears streaming down his bloodied face. David snorted at him and then staggered back to the living room.

Mitchell managed to drag himself over to the cabinets, where he pulled his battered body into a sitting position. He knew he was going to have horrible bruises on his face he'd have to explain away the next day.

He rested against the kitchen cabinets for a moment and then began the arduous process of standing up. His muscles strained and burned as he used the cabinet handles and countertops to hoist himself to his feet. Finally, ignoring the stars that were dancing in front of his eyes, he limped over to the cupboard to retrieve the dustpan and broom, then set about cleaning up the shattered glass. He swept the pieces into the dustpan carefully, but as he was transferring them to a paper bag so they wouldn't split open the garbage bag, one of the pieces nicked the edge of his palm, and bright scarlet blood began welling up immediately.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, the bag and dustpan falling to the floor with a clatter. He gripped his hand, already feeling the familiar stinging sensation that he had taken comfort in for so long...but he was doing so well. He couldn't afford to give in.

He thrust his hand under the cold water trickling from the faucet and then rummaged around in the poorly stocked cabinets for a plaster. He found a nearly empty box behind a tin of long ago expired coffee, and hurriedly applied the bandage to the cut, which was still bleeding sluggishly.

"Shit, shit, shit." he whispered, trying his hardest to ground himself and not give in to the overwhelming need that was consuming him to just go to his room and lock the door and completely fuck up. His hands were shaking violently, and his breathing came in heavy gasps. No, he couldn't do this.

But even as he tried to persuade himself to be strong, the little voice in the back of his mind was raging and screaming.

 _JUST DO IT! NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU. YOU'RE A FUCKUP ANYWAY. JUST GO AND DO IT!_

Before he really even knew what he was doing, Mitchell had made his decision and was hobbling up the stairs until he reached his small, sparsely furnished room. He made sure the ratty old lock was firmly in place before collapsing to the floor next to his dresser and wrenching open the bottom drawer with trembling hands. He rooted around in the drawer, throwing clothes every which way until the tips of his fingers came into contact with the small box he kept there. Fingers shaking, he slowly opened it to reveal several shining silver blades inside.

Salty tears trekked down his cheeks as he gingerly pulled off his jacket, trying not to irritate any of his injuries, new and old. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow, revealing a forearm covered in pale silver and pink scars. He picked up the sharpest blade, one he'd stolen from a box cutter at his job at a local cafe a month ago. He'd never used it before.

Mitchell placed the brand-new blade against his skin and pulled sharply across his arm, the need for relief overtaking his mind. The familiar calming sensation immediately overcame him as he watched the blood begin to flow from his arm.

All his troubles melted away. The storm inside of him finally ceased and calmed, and he focused on the burning pulse in his arm. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, pulling the blade across his skin again. The sharp edge worked like magic against his soft flesh, making deep, smooth cuts that bled such a bright red.

Mitchell lost track of time as he sat on his bedroom floor digging the blade into his forearm over and over again. He only stopped when he realized that he had never finished cleaning up the broken glass in the kitchen. He methodically began cleaning himself up. He retrieved a cloth from the bathroom and cleaned off his blade, then wiped up the blood that had splattered on the hardwood floor of his room. He then returned the blade to his box and dug around in his drawer until he found a second box, this one containing a few bandages and antibiotic creams. He was always careful to clean himself up afterwards. He couldn't risk anyone finding out about this.

He was running low on bandages, so after he had wrapped his arm in the least bloodied one that he soon covered with his shirt sleeve and fingerless gloves, he slowly returned downstairs, ever wary that his father might still be on the rampage. However, peeking into the living room revealed that David had passed out on the couch again, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his fingers. Mitchell rolled his eyes and carefully pulled the cigarette from his father's fingers, snuffing it out in the ashtray. He didn't want the whole goddamn house to burn down.

Mitchell returned to the kitchen and quickly finished clearing up the glass, his arm stinging and smarting, distracting him from the pain and soreness from his earlier beating. The familiar feeling of guilt was washing over him now, replacing his initial relief. He'd been clean for three whole weeks, enough time for his old cuts to heal over and turn into pale pink scars. But that was over now. He was back to square one again.

Exhausted and in pain, Mitchell finally dragged himself back upstairs to his room and collapsed on his bed, not bothering to shower or change his clothes. He just wanted to sleep. He would worry about everything else in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Mitchell nervously tugged on the sleeves of his jacket as he entered the school, keeping his head down and allowing his long, dark hair to obscure his face. He had woken that morning to find several noticeable bruises on his face - one around his eye, one shadowing his cheekbone, and one stretching out from a split lip. He'd done his best to cover them up – he'd never admit this to anyone, not even George or Annie, but he had an old bottle of his mother's foundation hidden in his room that he used on occasions like this, when David had gone too far and the injuries were too noticeable.

But even with the makeup, the bruises were still visible to a scrutinizing eye, and Mitchell couldn't risk anyone finding out about what his father did to him.

"Oof!"

Mitchell was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings, until he suddenly ran head-on into someone. The force of impact sent them both crashing to the ground, where he gasped in pain as the already throbbing bruises on his torso came into agonizing contact with the hard floor.

"Oh, Mitchell! I am so sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going!" Annie's voice floated down to him through his haze of pain. She had already scrambled to her feet and was holding out a hand to help him up. He groaned in pain, eyes closed, but made no move to take her offered hand. He was just so tired. She should just leave him here to die.

"Gah!" He exclaimed, eyes shooting open as an iron tight grip closed around his left forearm, sending even more shockwaves of pain through his body. Annie had unknowingly grabbed him by his cut up arm and was pulling him upright. Mitchell had finally run out of clean bandages that morning and had been forced to go without - he could feel several cuts stinging, reopening, as he was hauled to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Mitchell, I was in such a hurry to see Miss Haversmith this morning that I didn't even see you coming! It turns out that I forgot to put this header on my paper that's apparently required if I want to get a good grade, and this whole paper is worth like three quarters - oh my God, Mitchell, are you alright? What happened?"

Amidst her jabbering, she had caught sight of Mitchell's face, and with less than a foot between them, it was impossible not to notice the bruises. Annie's mouth had fallen open in shock, forming a perfect "o" of surprise. His arm was still in her hand, and he winced at the pain - something that did not go unnoticed by Annie - before gently removing it from her grip. Mitchell avoided her gaze and busied himself with picking up his backpack, which he'd lost his grip on during the fall.

"Mitchell?" Annie said, voice barely more than a whisper. "How did you get those bruises?"

Mitchell chuckled nervously, plastering a fake smile on his face as he finally turned to face her.

"Oh, just tripped over my own feet last night while I was going downstairs. Managed to tumble the whole way down to the bottom floor. Messed up my face pretty bad, huh?"

Annie was staring at him with those eyes of hers - the eyes that said she knew he was lying to her.

"Yeah..." she said slowly. "That hurt your arm too?"

"Yeah, actually, I kinda broke my fall with it. You know me, always really clumsy." Mitchell gave a shaky laugh. "Look, Annie, I'd better go, I've got some homework I haven't done yet and the bell's gonna ring soon. See you at lunch!"

Before Annie could say a word to stop him, Mitchell darted away, heading straight for the library. He really did have to get homework done before classes started or he was going to have even worse grades than he already did. He breathed a sigh of relief when he entered the peaceful silence of the library and sat down, setting about getting his maths work done before first bell.

"George, we need to talk." Annie grabbed her friend by the sleeve of his jacket sleeve and dragged him towards an empty classroom. Most of the day had passed uneventfully; Annie hadn't mentioned Mitchell's injuries again and everyone acted totally normal, but she was still worried - she couldn't get the awful bruises on Mitchell's face out of her head. As soon as the bell for lunch had rung, she had darted out of her classroom and run to the computer lab just in time to catch George leaving his class.

"Ow! Annie, what are you doing?" George sputtered as Annie pushed George into the deserted French classroom, closing the door firmly behind them.

"I really think something's wrong with Mitchell." Annie said, crossing her arms and turning to face her friend. "I ran into him this morning - I mean, _literally_ , ran into him - and he looked like he was in some serious pain. And he had all these bruises on his face, didn't you see them? I'm worried about him, George. This isn't the first time this has happened either, but he always blames it on him having some accident at work or just general clumsiness. We both know he is _not_ clumsy, and there's no way he could have that many accidents. George - " Annie hesitated and took a deep breath. "I think that someone may be doing this to him."

To Annie's great surprise, George did not immediately protest her notion and call her ridiculous for suggesting it, but instead took a deep breath and ran a hand over his closely cropped hair.

"I think you might actually be right. I gave him a ride home yesterday and he was in this huge hurry to get home on time. He was acting really strangely in the car, ya know, not talking, fidgeting, checking the clock the whole time." George sighed, hesitating. "You - You don't think it's his dad, do you?"

Annie, who had already had a sinking suspicion that Mitchell's father was the one responsible for his bruises, nodded her head sadly.

"I mean, neither one of us has ever actually met him, and Mitchell never wants anyone over at his house. This could be the reason why."

"Yeah, but what are we gonna do about it? What if it's not Mitchell's dad that's doing it? Either way he's a dick, but if we falsely accuse him we could be in big trouble."

Annie chewed her lip nervously. "Could we go to Miss McCreedy?"

George snorted. The school's notoriously incapable guidance counselor was probably the least helpful person they could reach out to.

"Oh, come on, Annie, she can't even handle helping people get into university, let alone _domestic abuse_." George whispered the last two words, glancing furtively out the window in the door to make sure no one was listening.

"Well what do we do then?" Annie exclaimed, throwing her arms up and the air and moving to sit at a desk.

George thought for a moment and then took a seat next to her.

"I think we should talk to Mitchell about it. But I think we need to directly ask him if it's his dad that's hurting him. If we don't come right out and say it, he'll just make a joke out of it and call us worrywarts or whatever."

Annie nodded slowly. "I think you're right. And the sooner we do it the better. He's still going over to yours later, right?"

George nodded. "Yes, I think around six. Why don't you come at five thirty and then we can talk to him together when he comes round. My parents went to visit my aunt so we'll have the house. I don't really want them there for this anyway."

"Sounds good to me." Annie responded.

George quickly checked his watch and then rose from his seat. "C'mon, lunch started ten minutes ago, Mitchell's probably wondering what we're doing."

Mitchell hopped off the bus, grinning and giving the driver a quick wave before beginning the short walk to George's house. Thank God it was Friday. His father had decided to go out of town for a "business meeting" and wouldn't be back till late Saturday. Mitchell had a spring in his step as he turned at the end of the street and George's house came into view. He was looking forward to spending time with his friends and being a normal teenager for once.

He hopped up the steps leading to George's front porch and then knocked twice on the door. He heard a quick, hushed argument on the other side before the door was wrenched open and George ushered him into the house.

"Uh...hi." Mitchell said as George hurried him into the sitting room, where, to Mitchell's surprise, Annie was already seated in an armchair.

"Hi Mitchell, how are you?" Annie asked, smiling at him.

"I'm fine." he answered, taking a seat on the couch. "I thought you weren't coming till later?"

"Oh, that thing I had got cancelled, so why wait, huh?" Annie gave a short nervous laugh.

"Right, yeah." Mitchell was starting to feel a little uneasy, but he quickly brushed the feeling away. "So, what do you guys want to do?"

George sat down in the chair next to Annie as they exchanged glances.

"Actually, Mitchell, we were hoping we could talk to you about something." George said.

Mitchell was getting very uneasy now, and suddenly Annie's suspicion when she had noticed his bruises came flooding back into his mind.

 _No_ , he thought. _They don't know, it's probably about something else._

"Uh, sure," he said, swallowing the fear in his voice. "What - What did you wanna talk about?"

Annie and George exchanged another look before George took a deep breath.

"Mitchell," he began. "Annie and I were wondering - well, I mean we've both been noticing lately that you're - that you've been - "

"Acting a little strangely." Annie finished. "And, well, we're worried about you and we don't want anything bad to happen to you which is why we're all kind of here, and George and I have discussed this before and well, we just wanted to make sure that - well, we're worried that maybe - "

Annie broke off awkwardly, looking desperately at George for help.

"Mitchell, we just need to know something. And please don't get mad at us for suggesting it but we have to ask." George swallowed and took another deep breath. "Mitchell, is your dad abusing you?"

Mitchell, who had been feeling an odd mixture of both panic and amusement at his friends' awkward conversation, suddenly felt his heart skip a beat.

 _They know, they know, they know, they know, they know._

Mitchell squashed down the fear that was rolling in waves through his body and let out a shaky laugh that he knew was fooling no one.

"What? Are you guys serious? You think my dad is _hitting_ me? You're crazy." he scoffed, trying his best to be convincing.

Annie narrowed her eyes. "How did you get those bruises then?"

"I told you, I fell down the stairs last night." Mitchell said shortly.

George rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Mitchell, no one believes that. You're not clumsy, and don't say it happened at work, because you've used that excuse too much."

Mitchell just stared at them, speechless, but on the inside, he was panicking - the fear choking and building up to an inferno. It was too much. The walls were closing in on him. George and Annie were staring at him, expecting an answer, but he couldn't give them one. He couldn't handle this - he needed to get out.

Mitchell was on his feet and attempting to make it to the front door before he even realized he had moved. George, however, had risen as soon as he had seen Mitchell move off the couch. He quickly grabbed Mitchell's arm as he tried to push past, effectively preventing him from leaving but also eliciting a flinch and a gasp of pain from Mitchell as George's fingers dug into his already irritated cuts.

Mitchell wrenched his arm out of George's grip and curled it into his body, tears of pain blurring his vision. The room had gone completely silent except for Mitchell's ragged breathing.

"Mitchell," Annie whispered, she too rising to her feet.

"Please," Mitchell gasped. "Please, just leave me alone. I'm fine."

George's brow was furrowed in suspicion as he approached Mitchell.

"Mitchell, let me see your arm." He said firmly, reaching out for it.

Mitchell took a step away from George's outstretched arm, fury suddenly replacing his panic. Didn't they understand that he was fine with the way things were? He had everything under control - he didn't need anyone butting into his private life.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" He snarled, glaring at his friends. "I'm fine, and I don't need any help!"

"If everything is really fine, then why won't you let me look at your arm? It's obviously injured - and right now I don't care _how_ it was injured - I just want to look at it to see what's wrong. You may need medical att - "

"I DON'T NEED ANYTHING!" Mitchell yelled. A small part of him was berating himself for yelling at his only friends, but the larger part of him had gone into defensive mode, denying anything and everything to keep up his facade. "I've been taking care of myself since I was fucking nine years old! Why have you suddenly decided that I need help now?"

George was starting to get frustrated. He and Annie had discussed this, aware that Mitchell would probably deny the truth and get angry at them, but he was still annoyed that his friend apparently didn't trust them enough to be honest with them.

"Why can't you just let me see what's wrong with your arm?" He asked, frustration evident in his voice. "That's all I want to do!"

"I've already told you there's nothing wrong!" Mitchell snarled. "I don't need - "

"MITCHELL JUST LET ME LOOK AT YOUR BLOODY ARM!" George finally lost what little control he had over his temper and lunged forward, wrenching Mitchell's arm away from his chest. Mitchell struggled and tried to escape George's grasp, but he was so tired. His body was sore and refused to cooperate with the desperation he felt to keep his secret hidden. It was almost too easy for George to take control of Mitchell and wrench his sleeve up to his elbow.

Mitchell would never forget the following moment. How everything seemed to stop. Once his friends finally saw the angry red marks and pink scars on his arm, all the fight left them. Annie gasped and covered her mouth in shock, eyes filling with tears. George's once iron grip on Mitchell's arm relaxed into a gentle hold, as though Mitchell was a glass doll, capable of shattering into a million tiny pieces.

Panic was rising in Mitchell once more. They couldn't see, they couldn't know, he'd hidden it for so long...He made a motion to attempt to leave again, but George held him back, this time gentle and soft. Mitchell gasped, tears stinging his eyes as his anxiety rose to a crescendo. He had to go home, he would have the house to himself there, he would cut again, he could already feel the familiar urge, the tingling of his skin, the need to slice and dice his arm, he needed -

"Oh, Mitchell." Annie's voice pierced through the haze of his panicking. "You did this?"

It was barely more than a whisper, but the love and concern he heard in her voice combined with the comfort of George's hands felt like a stab through his heart, and suddenly he was crying. Tears slid down his cheeks in droves, and he finally let go. He let go of the anger and the fear and the pain. He was sobbing and gasping for breath and he couldn't see oh god he couldn't see and he was so dizzy and his knees were weak and he was gonna -

Suddenly, he was aware of George's strong hands moving to his shoulders, supporting him, leading him back to the couch where he all but collapsed on to the comfortable pillows. He felt a presence beside him and a soft hand slid into his own - Annie was there. He began crying all the more - George and Annie, it was always George and Annie.

"Please, I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Shhhh," Annie whispered, leaning into him. "It's alright, everything's okay now."

Mitchell leaned his head on her shoulder, her gray cardigan soaking up his tears. She softly hummed and brushed his hair away from his face. George suddenly appeared in front of him with a small first aid kit - Mitchell vaguely wondered when he had gone to get that, but the thought was immediately chased away by a stinging pain in his arm - George had doused a cotton ball in alcohol and was gently cleaning out Mitchell's cuts.

He grimaced and tried to pull his arm out of George's grasp, but George was firm. He carefully dabbed more of the alcohol soaked cotton on Mitchell's cuts, ignoring the winces from his friend.

"Some of these are pretty deep...but I don't think you'll need stitches. Didn't you clean them or bandage them or anything?" George asked.

"Tried to." Mitchell replied, muffled by Annie's shoulder. "Ran out of bandages a couple days ago. Used a dirty one the first day but didn't have any more after that."

George pursed his lips at Mitchell's living conditions. How had they not caught on earlier? Annie sighed, obviously thinking the same thing, and continued stroking Mitchell's hair while George methodically cleaned up Mitchell's cuts and covered them in a pristine white bandage.

"There." He said, returning the supplies to the first aid kit. "They're taken care of now."

"Thank you." Mitchell whispered. "I - I'm sorry that I yelled at you earlier."

George smiled. "It's alright. Shouldn't have lost my temper. But you know you can tell us anything. We're here to help."

Mitchell nodded. "I know that. I was just afraid to tell anyone. I was so used to keeping it a secret that I didn't know how to even tell you."

Annie sighed and rested her chin on top of Mitchell's head.

"Mitchell, does he actually - you know, your dad - does he hit you?" She asked tentatively.

Mitchell closed his eyes, leaning more into her embrace before nodding his head.

"Shit." George muttered, taking a seat in an armchair.

"Please," Mitchell said urgently, head shooting up from Annie's shoulder. "You can't tell anyone. It's not worth it. It'll only make things worse."

"But Mitchell," Annie argued. "we can't just sit back and _watch_. It's - It's -" she struggled for the right word "- _barbaric_."

Mitchell shook his head. "No. You don't understand. You cannot tell anyone. Swear that you won't. Swear to me right now that you won't tell _anybody_."

George and Annie remained silent, looking at each other uncertainly.

" _Swear!_ " Mitchell demanded, shoulders tensing.

"Alright." George said. "We won't tell. I swear."

Mitchell relaxed and fell back against the back of the sofa. "Thank you." he murmured, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the need for sleep.

"You alright, Mitchell?" Annie asked.

"Hmm." Mitchell said in response, eyes closing of their own accord. God, he was absolutely exhausted.

George chuckled. "Think he's tired. It's been a long day. Why don't we all get some sleep, we can talk more in the morning."

Mitchell was barely aware of George hauling blankets and pillows into the sitting room. But soon, he was wrapped up in a warm blanket with the knowledge that he would not have to carry his secret with him any longer. And with that thought, he drifted off into a comfortable and dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Mitchell awoke slowly, momentarily confused as to where he was. He rarely slept over at anyone else's house unless he was lucky enough to be home alone for a weekend. He shifted on the sofa, snuggling deeper into the soft blanket, unwilling to wake up just yet.

"Morning!" A chipper voice in his ear immediately displaced any hope he'd had of sleeping for a few more minutes.

"Christ, Annie," he grumbled. "can't a man get any sleep around here?"

"Nonsense, you've been asleep for over twelve hours." Annie said, setting a mug down on the coffee table and moving his feet off the couch so she could sit down. "There, I've made you tea. I thought it might help - after last night - and well, you know, everything that happened."

Mitchell averted her gaze, suddenly embarrassed that she knew all his deepest secrets, and busied himself with becoming extremely fascinated with the cup of tea. Luckily, he was saved from any awkward conversations by George's sudden arrival.

"Well, look who's finally up." George teased, grinning, but Mitchell could see the concern in his eyes, making him feel even more uncomfortable. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Were his friend's going to walk on eggshells around him constantly? Would they be checking up on him all the time to make sure he hadn't slit his wrists that night? He suddenly regretted telling them anything.

"What time is it anyway?" He asked, trying to divert their attention away from him.

"Nearly eleven." Annie said, glancing at her watch.

Mitchell sighed. "I should be getting back home. My dad's out of town till later but I should go back and make sure everything's in order and get some homework done."

Annie chewed on her lip nervously, giving Mitchell a worried look.

"You'll be okay, won't you? Call us if - you know - anything happens. We'll be there."

"Call us when you get home and let us know everything's okay." George said. "Just in case."

Mitchell was slightly overwhelmed by their concern. No one had ever told him to call to make sure he was alright. No one had ever worried that he would be okay going home. He didn't quite know how to respond, so he settled for a quick smile and a muttered "I will" before gathering up his things and heading home.

Mitchell walked to the bus stop with mixed feelings. He felt as though a great weight had been removed from his shoulders, but only to be replaced with another. No longer would he have to hide anything from George and Annie - the care his friends had shown was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. But he hated pity, and didn't want them feeling as though they had to help him or save him. As he saw the bus approaching, Mitchell decided to worry about it later as he dug in his pockets for his money. He paid the driver several crinkled bills and took a seat, looking forward to having nearly the whole day to himself at home.

Mitchell hopped over the threshold, allowing the screen door to bang shut behind him, knowing that no one would be there to yell at him for it. He slung his jacket over a chair in the kitchen before fishing his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled quickly through his contacts, looking for George while taking the stairs two at a time until he reached his room. He'd just give him a quick call and then get started on his English homework, then maybe try and give the house a good cleaning, goodness knows it hadn't been done in -

"And just where the hell have you been?"

Mitchell had opened the door to his bedroom without looking up from his phone, but the menacing voice of his father caused his head to snap up, icy tendrils of fear wrapping themselves around his heart. The phone slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

 _No no no no no no he's supposed to be gone until tonight. What the fuck is he doing home he was supposed to be out oh my god ohmygodohmygod_

Mitchell's thoughts spiraled out of control as he slowly turned to face his father. This couldn't be happening. No, God no, this couldn't be happening.

"ARE YOU GOING TO ANSWER ME?"

Mitchell flinched, spittle flying from his father's lips to land on his cheek.

"I-I-I was just a-at George's," he stammered, taking a few steps back only to have David follow him, as though they were connected by a length of string. "We had to do th-this project for s-school."

David snarled.

"Don't lie to me you son of a bitch! I bet you were just so happy that I'd be gone that you thought you could go gallivanting all over the town, doing whatever the fuck you pleased without any concern at all." David stumbled closer to Mitchell, eyes flashing with anger. "Don't I TELL you to stay at home and make yourself fucking useful? Look at this place! It's a goddamn shithole thanks to you! You're useless! Absolutely fucking worthless!"

David was so close to Mitchell that he could smell the pungent odor of whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. Mitchell closed his eyes cursed himself for being so stupid and thinking everything would be okay. He should have known he could never be that lucky.

David reached out and grabbed Mitchell's jaw, forcing his son to look him in the eye.

"Fucking look at me when I talk to you!" David yelled before throwing Mitchell to the floor, where he skidded before slamming into his dresser. He barely had time to recover before David was on him again, punching him over and over.

"Please, Dad, please, I'm sorry!" He choked out, feeling blood pour from his nose as well as his mouth. But David was relentless, punching and kicking without reprieve. Mitchell tried to shield himself as best he could, but it did no good; he heard a sickening crack punctuate his father's grunts and his own sobs - his rib had broken. The stabbing pain in his side soon blended in with the agony of the rest of his body as his father's blows continued falling on him over and over and over.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, David backed away from Mitchell, leaving his son to curl up in pain on the floor. Mitchell was barely conscious at this point. He felt absolute and complete agony and was dimly aware of his blood dripping steadily onto his rug.

 _That'll be murder to clean up_. He thought stupidly, and almost laughed at how he was worried about cleaning up his own blood. His musings were cut short by the sound a belt buckle being undone. Mitchell's eyes snapped up to his father, who was glaring murderously at his son, his sturdy leather belt gripped tightly in his hands.

Mitchell paled at the sight, shaking his head slightly and rising to his elbows.

"Please, Dad," he gasped. "please stop. I'm sorry, I should have told you, please don't - "

His begging was cut short by his father grabbing him with both hands and roughly ripping his shirt off. He threw it to the side of the room before shoving Mitchell back to the floor again.

Mitchell had no doubt that the following moments would remain with him forever. He knew he would always remember the sound of the belt as it snapped and hit his bare flesh. He would remember the sting of each lash, and the feel of the rug as his cheek pressed into it, tears dripping steadily from his nose to be absorbed by the material. He would recall the sickening feeling of blood sliding down his back as the metal of the buckle cut into his back, ripping open the skin. He would remember how it felt like he was beaten for hours.

Eventually, it all came to an end as David's blows slowed down and then came to a stop. Both he and his son were breathing heavily, Mitchell's breaths coming in hitched gasps as he tried to breathe through the unendurable pain. Mitchell was barely aware of David drunkenly stumbling from his room, leaving him curled up on the floor, covered in bruises with blood dripping slugglishly from his back and mouth.

Mitchell lay on the border of consciousness, too exhausted and in too much pain to even attempt to move. He simply lay there, crying. He'd cried quite a lot over the past few days, he mused. They had been particularly bad days. His father rarely got drunk as often as he had been this week, and Mitchell still didn't know why he was even home. He'd been so looking forward to having a weekend off. He couldn't take it anymore. He was so tired. Tired of everything - his father, school, his job, his life.

Mitchell's thoughts drifted to his blades - but this time with more drastic intentions. Why shouldn't he just cut deeper until he bled out? No one would miss him. His father would be happy, relieved of the burden of a useless son. George and Annie may be sad at first, but they would get over it. They had futures and good lives ahead of them, and he was only dragging them down.

In a split second, Mitchell had made his decision. He painfully dragged himself off the floor and rummaged around in his cluttered room until he found a piece of paper and a pen. He then collapsed back to the ground, leaning against his dresser and trying not to aggravate his wounds any more.

Hands shaking with exhaustion and nervousness, Mitchell hastily penned out a letter to the two people who mattered most to him. He knew that he could not convey all his thoughts to them in one short letter, but it was better than nothing. Now they would at least have closure. He carefully folded the paper in half and then scribbled "George and Annie" on the front. He set the paper down next to him, where it would be in plain view when his body was inevitably found, and then pulled open the drawer containing his blades.

For the last time, he opened up the box and pulled out the boxcutter blade. It was still the sharpest, and he couldn't afford to survive this due to a dull blade - he needed to die now. He needed everything to stop. Excitement thrilled through his body, coupled with a slight twinge of anxiety as he unraveled George's carefully wound bandage and placed the blade against his left wrist. He took a deep breath and then applied pressure, breaking the skin. Blood immediately welled up, but Mitchell pressed harder and harder, gritting his teeth against the pain. The blade was now embedded deep in his skin. He gasped at the agony in his wrist, but forced himself to begin pulling it down his arm.

 _More, more, more, gotta make sure they can't stitch it up_. He thought as the blood poured from his wrist, covering his arm in slick scarlet. His hands shook as he finished the first cut. It was deep and smooth, and he had definitely hit a major vein judging by how fast the blood was flowing out of the wound. He transferred the blade to his left hand, where it nearly slipped through his blood covered fingers.

Hands shaking, Mitchell placed the blade against his right wrist and began to cut again. This one was a bit harder to do. He was already feeling light headed from blood loss, and his jerking hands caused the blade to cut in a jagged line as he pulled it down his wrist. But still, he managed to get the job done. Blood seeped from his final self-mutilation at an alarming rate. Unable to feel his fingers, the blade slipped from his hand and fell to the floor beside his suicide note. Mitchell relaxed against his dresser, head falling back to lean against the drawers. Already his vision was fading out, - he could see the darkness encroaching on the edges as the pain in his wrists and body receded.

He was free, finally free. He felt an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment as he succumbed to the weight of his eyelids, giving in to the final darkness, completely unaware of the incessant ringing of his cell phone.

George paced back and forth in his living room, phone pressed up against his ear as he called Mitchell for the eighth time. Annie was curled up on the sofa, biting her nails nervously, eyes following George's nervous path.

"That's it." George said, ending the failed call and shoving his phone into his pocket. "I'm going over there. It's been half an hour since he left and it only takes like ten minutes for him to get home by bus."

Annie shot up from her spot on the couch and followed George as he pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys.

"Annie, listen I don't think you should come." He said apologetically, hesitating by the door. "Mitchell's dad might be at the house and I don't know how he'll react to us being there."

Annie narrowed her eyes at him and crossed her arms.

"Mitchell's my friend too, George. If you think I'm just going to sit here in the comfort of your house while he's potentially being _beaten to death_ , then you've got another thing coming."

With that, Annie grabbed her jacket, swept past George and headed out the door. George hesitated a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, then followed after her.

The ride to Mitchell's house was silent, George and Annie wrapped up in concern for their friend.

"We should have made him stay." George said suddenly. "We shouldn't have let him go home. What if his dad came home early or something? God, what have we done?"

"Maybe it's alright." Annie said. "Maybe - maybe he just forgot to call and then took a shower and didn't hear his phone ringing or something." George could tell by her tone of voice that she didn't really believe her words. He pushed the gas pedal harder, urging the little car faster.

Finally, George pulled up in front of Mitchell's house. The beat-up car his father owned wasn't in the driveway, and George allowed himself a small flicker of hope. Maybe Annie was right.

George and Annie nearly sprinted up the path to the front door. Annie knocked sharply several times and then waited impatiently while George dialed Mitchell's mobile once more. When neither got a response, George tried the door, finding it unlocked. He wrenched it open harshly, dashing over the threshold, Annie on his heels.

"Mitchell!?" He yelled, immediately searching the sitting room while Annie checked the kitchen. Greeted with clutter, beer bottles, and cigarettes butts instead of their friend, George bounded up the stairs.

"Mitchell? Mitchell are you here?" Annie called, running up the stairs after George. "It's George and Annie, we're just checking to see if you're okay!"

No response.

George and Annie, having never been in Mitchell's house before, had no idea where his room was. They split off at the top of the stairs, Annie going left and George going right, opening doors left and right and calling Mitchell's name.

"Mitch -" George's call was cut off as he opened the last door. The terrifying sight that greeted him, he knew, would be burned into his memory for the remainder of his days in excruciating detail. The despairing sight of his best friend slumped on the floor against his dresser, covered in horrible welts and bruises, surrounded by a pool of blood pumping out of deep cuts on his wrists, would stay with him forever.

"No no no no no. ANNIE!" He screamed, sprinting to his friend. Mitchell was deathly pale and obviously unconscious. "ANNIE CALL AN AMBULANCE!"

George wrenched Mitchell's sheets off his small bed and immediately pressed them against the self-inflicted wounds. They were soaked in blood in a matter of moments - George was dimly aware of Annie running into the room, speaking hurriedly into her phone, as he tried to stem the blood flow.

"Oh God, no, he's tried to kill himself. He's bleeding all over the place - please, you have to get here now!" She ran over to George, taking one of the already bloodied sheets from his hands and applying pressure to Mitchell's left wrist so George could concentrate on his right.

"He's still breathing," George said, relief washing over him as he watched the shallow rise and fall of Mitchell's bare chest. "Oh God, oh God, oh God..." He muttered frantically, readjusting the sheet around his friend's wrist, trying to find a dry spot. His hands shook violently, causing the material to nearly slip though his fingers.

"Ambulance will be here in five minutes." Annie said, fear in her voice, tossing her phone to the ground and wrapping her sheet more tightly around Mitchell's wrist. Tears dripped from her cheeks, landing on her hands and the sheet.

"Oh God, Mitchell," she sobbed. "What have you done?"

She and George waited for the ambulance together, kneeling beside their dying friend, consumed with fear and guilt.

"How is he?" Annie shot up from her seat in the A&E waiting area as she saw George approaching her.

He sighed and took a seat, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. Annie immediately returned to her seat and stared at him expectantly.

"Annie - " He started, but broke off quickly, tears choking him. Annie rubbed his back comfortingly and waited patiently for him to continue. She had taken George's car and followed the ambulance to the hospital while George rode in the back with Mitchell.

"He's alive. They took him straight to surgery." George raised his eyes to meet Annie's eyes. "Annie, the paramedics, they lost him in the ambulance for a minute. He just - he stopped breathing, and the only thing I could hear was that bloody f-flatline. He was - he was _dead_ for two and a half minutes before they brought him back."

At this point, George was sobbing without restraint.

"And _God_ Annie, there was so much blood. It was - it was everywhere. And I really thought - he really looked dead. I thought we'd lost him. And I couldn't believe it. And _fuck,_ we could still lose him if he doesn't make it through surgery."

Annie pulled away from George, eyes flashing.

"We will not lose him." She said sharply through her tears. "I absolutely refuse to lose him. He's going to pull through and make a recovery and we are getting him away from his father and that is that."

"But Annie, you didn't see the bloo-"

"NO!" Annie yelled, causing several heads to turn in their direction. "No." She repeated quietly, voice breaking. And suddenly she was crying, the determined expression on her face crumbling as the tears made their way down her cheeks.

"I can't lose him." She whispered. George gently put his arm around her shoulders and she curled into his chest.

"I know." George said quietly. "I know. He'll be okay. He has to be."

Annie and George stayed that way for several hours, watching as people came and went. The perked their heads up each time a doctor appeared, only to hang them again in disappointment when other worried people were brought relief, or in some cases devastation. Annie had just dozed off, head lolling onto George's shoulder, when a haggard looking doctor appeared.

"Family of John Mitchell?" He called, scanning the waiting room.

George immediately stood up, abruptly waking Annie up from her fitful slumber.

"Yes, that's us." He said fiddling with his glasses nervously. Annie stood up and joined him at his side as they both stared at the doctor, waiting for him to either crush any hope they had or bring them infinite relief. "Please, is he - alive?" George choked out.

The doctor smiled slightly. "Yes, John has pulled through, it was touch and go for a bit. He lost quite a bit of blood, but we closed up his wounds and started blood transfusions. He's sleeping now, but he'll be okay."

Annie laughed out loud and immediately hugged George tightly, who was staring at the doctor, dumbstruck by the good news.

"Now," The doctor continued. "My name is Dr. Harrison and I'm in charge of John's case. I understand you two went to his house and found him, and I'm afraid I have to ask this question due to the condition in which John was brought to us. He had a broken rib which caused some slight internal bleeding as well as a multitude of scars and bruises on his body. I need to know if John is being abused by someone."

Annie and George's smiles faded. George hesitated for a moment - they had promised Mitchell that they wouldn't tell anyone, but his suicide attempt sort of voided that - Mitchell needed to get away from his father now. Apparently, Annie had the same thoughts as George, because she cut in before George could speak.

"His father." She said, shifting nervously. "We only just found out about it yesterday. He was supposed to be home alone this weekend and we made him promise to call us when he got home safely, but he never did. We think his dad came home and - and beat him when he learned Mitchell had been out. We don't know where his dad went, though. He was nowhere around when we went to check on Mitchell."

"Alright," The doctor said, jotting down some notes on his clipboard. "Thank you for telling me. We're going to do everything we can to get Mitchell to safety and help him heal. Would you like to sit with him for a bit?"

"Yes." Annie and George answered simultaneously. Dr. Harrison smiled and motioned for them to follow him.

Annie and George were led down a series of hallways until they reached the ICU wing. Dr. Harrison stopped outside of room 207 and opened the door for them.

"Press the nurse call button if he wakes up or if you have any concerns, I have to go and make some phone calls."

With that, he quietly departed, leaving Annie and George to sit in the two chairs surrounded Mitchell's bed. Mitchell lay on the bed, dressed in an uncomfortable looking paper gown. He was still frighteningly pale, but the blood had all been washed off him and thick white bandages encased his wrists. A thin cannula was resting on his upper lip, delivering precious oxygen to his lungs. George took comfort in the reassuringly loud beep that announced that Mitchell's heart was indeed beating and that he was alive.

Annie gently covered one of Mitchell's hands with her own and smiled through her tears.

"He's gonna be okay."


End file.
